


Forever We Are, Forever We've Been

by StarberryCupcake



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Emotional, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, Footnotes, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Non-Graphic Violence, Past Torture, Post-Canon, Psychological Torture, Tenderness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-01
Updated: 2019-07-01
Packaged: 2020-05-31 11:33:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19425142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarberryCupcake/pseuds/StarberryCupcake
Summary: So Crowley has lived, has existed, getting used to the idea that Aziraphale and himself are not, in all reality, that different. Moreover, especially after the Apocalypse-that-wasn’t, within all the things he started questioning, he considers often the possibility that there is, existentially-wise, a middle ground in which they can meet.But then, things like this happen. And Crowley has to question, once again, what it means to Fall.In which Crowley revisits his fears and Aziraphale is there to help him heal.





	Forever We Are, Forever We've Been

**Author's Note:**

> This fic has elements that are in the book and not on the show, things that are on the show and not in the book, things that are in both places and, of course, things that are nowhere but in my silly mind, so it borrows a bit from everywhere and a bit from nowhere, but it's completely understandable regardless. As the tags say, warnings for descriptions of psychological torture and non-graphic depictions of other forms of demonic torture. The title is from [In The Night Side Of Eden](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nytjlKCIK0E) by H.I.M. because how could I not.

Falling is perceived in a similar way by most demons. 

In part, it is seen as determining, because it defines their existence. They are, after all, classified for what they are _not_. Demons are, basically, those who have Fallen. 

Falling is, for angels, an end, a finality, a caution. For demons, Falling is a start. 

Most demons, then, either embrace their Fall or just do not care about it. 

It can be a defining quality of their existence, their badge of honor, the rosette of sulfur and smoke, worn with pride, which represents their rebellion.

For others, it is just a thing of the past, because it is, one way or another, the beginning of the only existence that matters. 

For Crowley, though, it is neither. 

He has wondered, for the longest time, whether his perception towards his own Fall is a consequence of how it was more so a saunter than a dive. If his stumble, his hesitant trip, made it easier to see it less as an end or a beginning, and more of an...in-between event. 

Crowley doesn’t enjoy remembering his Fall, doesn’t like to revisit the questions or think up new ones. Yet the more time he spends with Aziraphale on Earth, the more he questions if they, those who have Fallen and those who have not, are really all that different. 

He has this idea that Aziraphale and himself meet in the middle, so to speak. Two beings who have approached a center, who have found a small clearing, an oasis, a patch of life[1] in between, where lines are blurred and edges are erased. 

Earth is, after all, an “in between”[2]. 

So Crowley has lived, has existed, getting used to the idea that Aziraphale and himself are not, in all reality, that different. Moreover, especially after the Apocalypse-that-wasn’t, within all the things he started questioning, he considers often the possibility that there is, existentially-wise, a middle ground in which they can meet.

But then, things like this happen. And Crowley has to question, once again, what it means to Fall.

Aziraphale stands, smiling contentedly, talking to a man inside his shop. A man, a human man, who looks about the age Aziraphale seems to be[3] , who is holding a book in his hands and a smile on his face, dreamy eyes directed at the angel who is waxing poetic about the book in question[4].

Aziraphale doesn't tend to enjoy customers or the prospect of having to actually _sell_ books. Yet, sometimes, a human comes by, who says exactly the right things to prompt a lecture from the angel about his most favorite books, or sparks some memory of the author in question, which ends up leaving him no choice but to part with the piece, given that, to the customer, it seemed like he was _recommending_ it. In all reality, he was just being passionate about his interests, as the angel often is. 

Crowley often considers that Aziraphale has more in common with him than he does with humans. There are certain things they can not rely on humans, things they cannot explain, and certainly things that humans would not be able to understand _even_ if they were to explain them.

You can, theoretically, try to imagine what an existence throughout millennia could be, but you can only really grasp it if you have lived it.

Yet, it is in moments like this, moments in which he finds Aziraphale engaging in something with a human, in a way in which an aura of goodness and kindness envelops the angel, when he remembers what humans lack of and demons[5] have. 

Humans have _not_ Fallen. 

The man packs his purchase, smiling contentedly at a slightly disgruntled Aziraphale, who seems to have noticed the mistake of speaking so well about the book in question. Crowley can see the nature of the man's interest in the way he looks at the angel, the way he seeks their hands to meet when offered change for his purchase, the way in which he offers his phone number “in case Aziraphale happens to come by this or other book”. It is unsurprising that the man doesn’t even register Crowley’s presence while exiting the shop. 

Crowley feels like the aura of adoration can almost sting him[6]. 

“Could you be so kind as to tell me what’s wrong?” Aziraphale doesn’t look away from the notes he is making on a yellow-paged ledger[7]. 

“Why do you assume something’s wrong?” Crowley attempts nonchalance[8] while approaching the wooden counter. 

“Well, you’ve been inside my shop for some minutes now and you’ve been awfully quiet.” Aziraphale closes the book and, finally, sets his eyes on Crowley. “That is highly unusual.” 

“Everything’s fine.” Crowley avoids the gaze, even behind his glasses. 

“Did you, after all this time, get further communication from... _down there_?” the angel asks in a low voice, while the sign on the door is miracled as ‘closed’. 

“No!” Crowley realizes his tone and lowers it. “No, like I said, nothing’s wrong.”

“Well, if you insist, I will stop pressing about it,” Aziraphale turns, leading Crowley to the back room, an inquisitive furrow in his brow. “But please do know that I am aware that you’re lying.” 

“And you’re an expert on the truth, aren’t you?” 

“My dear, after six thousand years I’d like to believe I’m an expert on _you._ ” 

When the angel turns to look at him, Crowley thanks that he can hide behind glasses. 

There is a look angels have, which is most often described as ‘divine’, when they are fighting with righteous fury or speaking about God’s Plan. 

To Crowley, though, Aziraphale’s truly ‘divine’ stare appears when he is being so softly _himself_ , whether that is with worry, with kindness or with a severity and finality only known to him. 

“I do wish you would remove those, when we’re alone, at least.” Aziraphale frowns slightly again. “It’d be easier to understand your different silences without me having to guess in the dark.” 

Crowley looks away and enters the room before Aziraphale does. 

“Wouldn’t want you to turn into an expert on me without some effort, angel.” 

“Oh, do trust, effort is applied _constantly_ indeed.” 

“There’s no need to be rude,” Crowley grumbles. 

He feels childish and petty. He thinks he could use a drink, or two, or a hundred, but then remembers the lack of control on his tongue that it unleashes, and considers it wiser not to tempt luck when he is feeling so many... _emotions_. 

“Wine?” Aziraphale offers, as if on cue. 

“No, thank you.”

The bottle, slipping from Aziraphale’s grasp, is about to crash and ruin a good portion of the carpet with a red and strongly scented stain. However, Crowley’s reflexes are fast enough to freeze it mid descent. 

“Angel, what in Go-...Sa-... _whoever_ ’s name?!”

“There _is_ a problem then.” Aziraphale stares. 

“Just because I said ‘no’ to wine?!”

Aziraphale turns to him fully, his frown turning more severe, not allowing any room for avoidance. 

“You said _no_ to _wine_ ,” he repeats, slowly. 

And yes, Crowley has to admit that it does sound...unusual. 

Still, whenever he drinks to the point that he would like to at that moment, he talks. He talks more than he should. 

He has always talked more than he should. Asked too many questions. Tried to understand more than anyone was willing to explain. And Crowley has learned that, when someone does not want to offer an answer, the alternative is always painful. 

In Heaven, it was Falling. 

Being sent with all those others to prepare for a war Crowley had never wanted to be in. They had thrust upon him an existence before he was even able to understand it, and the moment he Fell was the same he felt, for the first time, that something had been missing from every experience he had ever lived[9]. 

In Hell, it is punished with other forms of pain. 

Most often than not, it is physical. Demons do not respond to other, more “refined”, as Hastur would put it, forms of torture. Not all demons, at least. 

Crowley does. 

Crowley has been inflicted physical punishment in Hell in _several_ occasions. The first time he did, he was relieved. He understood, as the pain spread through his back, on his wings, that it was never going to be as bad as Falling[10]. 

But then there was the other kind. The kind Beelzebub had created in the aftermath of the war, with a mind fresh out of Heaven, able to remember what could be _really_ painful. 

Yet demons started to forget, as they spent more time in Hell than they did either in Heaven or on Earth, that punishments could be more than hurting others. They started to believe that all demons were just as reticent to physical pain and fear of discorporation, or of their existence vanishing. 

But Crowley remembered. 

He had feared the sole idea of suffering that punishment the moment he learned what it was. And then he had been put through it. 

He subsequently slept throughout the 19th century, only to wake once, enough to ask the angel, _his_ angel, for something that could save him from having to suffer through it again. Something that could kill him. 

He had felt that specific form of fear, of absolute terror, only three times. 

One was that day. 

The second time was inside a burning bookshop, calling a name that did not respond. 

The third time was the day that he had been seen by the eyes of Adam Young for the first time, when he understood that the boy was capable of cosmically arranging things in such a way that one could not have died or ceased to exist, but would have never existed at all. 

The three times, though, fear was rooted on the same, on Crowley losing something _crucial_.

He feels a grasp on his arm and he recoils, afraid. 

“Crowley?”

It is Aziraphale’s voice, from Aziraphale’s lips, in Aziraphale’s face, but is it really _him_? 

“Dear…” his eyes change, tinged with a worry he hasn’t seen since the 60s. 

When, without asking questions, he handed him a thermos and pleaded with his eyes things he wouldn’t say. 

Crowley lets out a breath he doesn’t need to hold or release. He inhales deeply, tasting his surroundings, grounding himself on the encompassing presence of Aziraphale. 

“I...I’m sorry,” Crowley offers, hesitant, sitting on a couch. 

Aziraphale follows him there, tentatively. 

“May I…?” he asks, his hand getting closer to Crowley’s face. 

Crowley doesn’t understand what he is asking, but he would allow him anything. He nods.

Aziraphale reaches out carefully, delicately, and Crowley wishes that it was all real. He wishes that he could tell the difference, and if this is his torture, his punishment, it would be only right. 

The angel takes his glasses off from his face. Crowley’s eyes are shut in fear. Aziraphale gasps. 

“I won’t hurt you, dear boy,” he says, softly. “I promise, I would _never._ ” 

Crowley opens his eyes and turns to him. Of course he wouldn’t. Of course it _is_ him. 

“I...I know...I’m sorry.” He knows he is shaking and curses himself for being so weak, for being so much less of a demon but not enough of an angel either. 

“There’s no need to be sorry.” Aziraphale reaches out again. “May I touch you?” 

Crowley has so many questions[11] , yet all he does is nod. Because he would never deny this angel, _his_ angel, anything that he can give. 

Aziraphale takes his shaking form in his arms, his warmth radiating peace and tranquility, in the way he does when humans need miracles, when they need reassurance and kindness. His arms go around Crowley and his benediction is all-encompassing and all Crowley can think of is that he doesn’t deserve it. 

“I never noticed, my dear, I’m _so_ sorry.” 

His voice is soft, like all of him, all softness and light where Crowley is edges and shadows. 

“I’ve seen this in humans, for millennia I’ve seen it, and I always wondered…” he sighs. “I knew things for you down there weren’t easy but I never dare to ask...I thought demons didn’t feel this much fear.” 

Crowley tries to chuckle but it comes out more like a disgruntled sound, an animal in pain. 

“I’m a terrible demon,” he replies, quiet, in the crook of the angel’s neck. 

Aziraphale kisses his temple and Crowley tries and fails to suppress a sob. He wants to tell him. He needs to tell him. He wants no walls between them and if one day he disappears, forever this time, he wants Aziraphale to know how much it all means. How much he is losing. 

“There is a special kind of torture in Hell,” he begins, his hands grabbing Aziraphale’s vest. “It was designed by Beelzebub for demons, but then it was left only for human souls, because they considered it wasn’t effective with demons anymore.” 

Aziraphale doesn’t speak but holds him closer. 

“It shouldn’t be effective with demons, because demons only respond to physical torture, or the idea of disappearing.” Crowley fixes his eyes on the familiar patterns of Aziraphale’s clothes. “Demons who have been so for long can’t be threatened by other fears because the only thing that matters to them is their own existence...so an ultimate punishment would be to end it.” 

He feels Aziraphale nod. 

“Heaven can always threaten with the Fall,” Crowley continues. “We are what you all fear to become.” 

At that, Aziraphale’s lips graze the top of his head, reverently, like denying he would renounce Crowley in such a way. 

“Hell threatens with physical pain...but then there’s that other thing, the one that doesn’t work with most demons...but it _did_ with me.” 

Crowley tries to find a voice within him, strong enough to continue. Aziraphale waits patiently, holding him close, and his warmth, without any miracles, without any auras, just his regular presence, is enough of a blessing for Crowley. 

“They used it with me only once, in the end of the 18th century…” he shivers. “The only good part is that they can’t see what happens in there, so they don’t know what you see…”

“In where?” Aziraphale asks, softly, as all of him.

Crowley taps his own temple as a response. 

“You are inside here, all of you is reduced to what you see there, because nobody knows how best to torture you than _yourself._ ” 

Crowley’s hands grab Aziraphale’s vest, he is probably creasing it and ruining it and he _knows_ Aziraphale doesn’t like that but the angel caresses his back softly, his hand grazing the space where his wings would be born, and it all feels like a miracle in itself. 

“Demons should fear physical harm, discorporation or ceasing to exist, so it became pointless to use it since those would be the constant responses, the only things a demon’s mind might conjure to torture oneself with fear...” Crowley sighs. “But to me, it’s not that.” 

He remembers the darkness first, and then the clarity. Every single detail etched in a perfect composition of his version of reality. 

“It didn’t last too long but I felt like it was ages, and it was you, it was _always_ you, saying all the things I fear you’d think, harming me with words as if they were your flaming blades.” 

He remembers Aziraphale, the _other_ Aziraphale, so seemingly authentic, but so ready to harm him, over and over. 

“It’s you as a winged figure in white, holding a flaming sword, and I am a snake, and you ask me how a low creature like me can expect to be looked at by someone as holy as you.” 

And he’s right, isn’t he? He is always right, Aziraphale. And Crowley starts to crumble from the inside, bit by bit. 

“It’s you in Rome, rejecting me after what I’ve done, telling me you could never care for someone whose essence is all you fight not to become.” 

There’s disgust in the other Aziraphale’s eyes, there’s rejection, and it looks so much like the real one that it becomes increasingly difficult to tell the difference the longer he stares at him. 

“It’s you in war, clad with armor, ridiculing my existence, my wish to someday fight beside you.” 

And it’s not hatred. Hatred would be _something_ . He has seen that righteous fury on the real Aziraphale and this is not it. Hatred would be preferable to this rejection, to this idea of him not caring enough, not even enough to _hate_. 

“It’s you, _always_ you, telling me you could never care for a Fallen soul.” 

There it is, always, the reminder of what keeps them apart. 

“And I disappoint you, over and over, and I lose you, over and over, and the worst thing is that I know, deep down, that eventually I _will_ …”

Crowley can’t keep talking. His voice is puddled with sobs and his body keeps shaking, weak and small, in Aziraphale’s grasp. 

“You went to sleep,” Aziraphale continues for him. “After that, you slept for a _century._ ” 

“Except for one day,” Crowley reminds him. 

“The holy water...oh _Crowley_...”

“The more time I spend on Earth with you, the more I believe I could someday be good enough for you and if they take that away from me I…” Crowley sighs. “When I came back, things had changed, you had loved humans, you had been _in love_ with humans[12], and I understood that they were free of something I will always be branded by, because I would always be...Fallen.” 

Aziraphale takes a distance from him and pushes him back slowly. Crowley wants to cry in pain, because this is what it looks like. The rejection. The part in which Aziraphale condemns him in all his heavenly glory. 

“Look at me, dear, _please._ ” 

Crowley does. Because he would never deny Aziraphale of anything he can give. 

“This is why you stop me when I say that you are kind.” He caresses Crowley’s cheek. “This is why you react, angrily, and try to prove me wrong.” 

Crowley wants to jerk back but he can’t leave that warmth, can’t deny the truth when it is spoken so softly, so kindly. 

“You don’t want to disappoint me.” Aziraphale’s other hand holds Crowley by the waist, stilling him in place. 

“ _Please_ , angel…” 

“The world was about to end and what you cared about the most was that I wouldn’t speak to you again.” His thumb grazes Crowley’s bottom lip. 

“Aziraphale…” 

“I know you won’t believe this merely by me saying it, but I think I can help, at least partly.” The angel closes his distance, slowly, softly, as all of him. “I can remind you how much you mean to me, and maybe, eventually, you’ll just _know_ ” 

His lips are a whisper away, his warmth is tainting his shadow, always kind, always soft.

“Know?” Crowley’s question is more of a sigh, the breath he doesn’t need, yet, at the same time, seems to be his last one left. 

“That I _love_ you,” Aziraphale responds, matter-of-factly, stern, intimate. 

And it’s so different from the _other one_ , because this truth is spoken just for him. It’s a truth that is part of more than just words being said. 

It’s in the hand that Aziraphale, the _real_ Aziraphale, has on his waist, a thumb grazing his hip bone. It’s in the caress of his other hand on his cheek, the reverence of his touch. It’s in his eyes, never looking away, as if Crowley’s own were worthy of being stared at, like witnessing a miracle. 

“May I?” 

And Crowley would never deny anything from this angel, but most importantly, would never deny _this_. 

So he nods. 

Aziraphale’s lips are as soft as all of him. Crowley is afraid, at first, to break the spell, but surrenders to the motions of his corporeal form. It’s a human gesture, kissing, that they don’t really need between each other. There are other connections, that transcend the flesh, that they could pursue, that they _have_ pursued. 

Yet here, on Earth, in the space that is their garden, they can use this. So when Aziraphale, carefully, brings Crowley to his lap, when he threads his fingers through Crowley’s hair, when he kisses him as if he was the only one who was worthy of being kissed _like this_ , Crowley feels closer to divine love than he has ever felt, even when in Heaven. 

Aziraphale withdraws but keeps him firmly on his lap, in the warmth and comfort of the cozy pleats of his body. Crowley makes a sound, he isn’t sure which, every bit of him too sensitive to know. 

“Was that too much, my dear?” his angel offers, searching his eyes, more unaffected than Crowley could ever be, yet as close as he can manage. “I wanted it to be...a placating kiss, I guess, something for you, but...I’m afraid I was a bit selfish with it...I’ve been wanting to do it for _so long._ ” 

“It was perfect,” Crowley murmurs in the crook of his neck, offering a tentative kiss of his own on the angel’s jaw. 

Aziraphale, as a response, caresses again the space of Crowley’s back were his wings would be born, and the demon sighs contentedly. 

“I meant what I said, dear.” His caresses don’t stop. “It will be difficult but it will be up to _you_ to believe it all...believe what you _deserve._ ” He kisses his temple. “I can be there for you, and show you in whichever ways I can that I love you, that I have _always_ loved you, but it won’t be enough if you don’t believe it.” 

“I know.” Crowley puts his arms around Aziraphale’s neck “M’ sorry.” 

“Don’t be, my dear.” He gently takes Crowley’s face in his hand, while still caressing his back with the other, and moves him so that they are facing one another again. “Now that we finally have time for ourselves, I think it’s a good opportunity to...learn new things and unlearn some others.” 

“Together?” Crowley asks, hopeful. 

“ _Together._ ” 

Aziraphale leans and kisses him again, and there is a bit of urgency behind his softness, a bit of selfish need, like the angel mentioned, and Crowley begins to understand that Aziraphale needs him and cares for him just as much as Crowley does. 

He kisses back with more purpose this time, more daring with his discovery, and it is Aziraphale’s turn to make contented sounds. He smiles when they pull back. 

“There’s a lot to learn and unlearn, then,” he offers, placing his head back in the crook of the angel’s neck. 

“Yes, and maybe a change of air would suit us, don’t you think?” the angel’s voice is filled with hope and longing. “Not too far but, far enough from the hustle and bustle, you know.” 

“And leave the Ritz?” Crowley plays with Aziraphale’s hair. 

“We could always come back, for special occasions.” He caresses Crowley’s side gently. “With your driving, we could be here in an instant.” 

“So you have a place in mind?” Crowley is surprised. “You’ve been thinking about it?” 

“Do you think there’s anyone else I’d rather spend my eternity with, you old serpent?” he punctuates the question with a kiss on Crowley’s shoulder. 

Crowley basks in the warmth and the promise of an eternal version of _this_. 

“South Downs,” the angel says. “I was thinking about a cottage in South Downs” 

**Author's Note:**

> 1 One could even say a garden. [ return to text ]  
> 2 Positioning is debatable, considering determining factors such as geographical location, space-continuum placement and other specifics, but metaphors are preferable, in this case. [ return to text ]  
> 3 Seems, but absolutely is _not_. [ return to text ]  
> 4 Crowley is not surprised in the slightest to note that it is one of Wilde’s. [ return to text ]  
> 5 Specifically Crowley. [ return to text ]  
> 6In fact, he is merely being dramatic, he is not physically hurt in the slightest. [ return to text ]  
> 7 The book is, by all accounts, meant to have ran out of space by then, but Aziraphale did not like the idea of “digitization” for his archives, even if Crowley has insisted on them multiple times, so the ledger has kept on having the needed space. [ return to text ]  
> 8 He doesn’t really manage it, but Aziraphale isn’t looking. [ return to text ]  
> 9 He would learn on Earth, much later, that what he had been missing was a choice. [ return to text ]  
> 10 Or, more specifically, as Falling while not _understanding_. [ return to text ]  
> 11 And isn’t that his problem, always. [ return to text ]  
> 12 Crowley had slept through almost the entire lifespan of Oscar Wilde, minus a day, and it wasn’t particularly Aziraphale’s love for his books what he resented. [ return to text ]  
> \------------------------------  
> I want to clarify that English isn't my native language and I've been pointed out of some mistakes that I'm trying my best to fix. I apologize for any inconvenience, if my grammar and/or punctuation in any way influenced your reading experience negatively, I'm so sorry.


End file.
